Bland
by lets.dance.shall.we
Summary: Too bland. Too drunk. Too close. A pointless Dramione ficlet that has absolutely nothing to do with the title.


**Bland**

-

-

-

-

_._

-

-

-

-

She takes a sip of thick fire whisky, ignoring the burning sensation as it rushes down her throat and settles in her stomach. Her shot glass is wet and dripping; she's on her fifth shot.

Anyone can see she's underage. Her face is still childish and innocent. It's smooth and looks like it used to glow. But her skin is a faded gray and anyone can see she's having a bad day. Her hair is bushy, but it's also matted and dirty and greasy. She hasn't had a shower for days. She's from Hogwarts; her robes betray her. And anyone can decide that she's not supposed to be here, at the bar. But no one tells her to leave.

Her shot glass slams down again; she's ready for her sixth.

"Hit me, bartender," she mumbles and lets her knotted bangs fall over her eyes. They were brown. A twinkling, warm brown, but anyone can see that they're clouded and murky now. No one knows why.

"You got 'nough money for all this?" the bartender questions, sauntering towards her, scratching his swollen belly with one hand, and places a new glass filled with whisky in front of her. She ignores him and gulps down her drink. He watches as she grimaces and starts retching. She's hunched over, upchucking all over his clean floor.

He does nothing to stop her.

"This'll cover it, I reckon." The sound of coins in this new comer's left pocket masquerade with his own low, dark voice. There's a hooded figure at the door and a silence falls over the other bar goers, isolating the girl's insufferable retches. The bartender quirks a brow at the newcomer.

"What do you want?"

There's a shuffling of clothes and clinking of more coins as the figure walks to the bar. He slams a fistful of galleons down in front of the bartender; he's rich and there's an upset in the crowd. The girl is still vomiting.

"Who are you?" the bartender questions, fingering his profits greedily with his pinky finger. The figure shifts his weight, and then shifts his angle towards the girl. She's recovering, but now she's dry retching, still stooped over.

"Doesn't matter," the figure growls and the bartender recoils and the whispers traveling through his customers die down once again. He stoops down, his pale hands reaching from his cloak and sliding onto the girls shoulders. The bartender sees her shake and he wonders if the girl knows the stranger.

"Are you okay?" the figure asks quietly, almost inaudibly. The bartender looks on. It's silence.

And then the girl gets up.

"I'm fine," she grumbles, wiping her mouth. The bar goers lose interest and turn back to their drinks. The bartender goes back to tending the bar, but keeps an eye on the girl and the figure.

"Why are you here?" the girl's voice says. "Why won't you leave me alone?"

"There was never really any reason for me to leave." The girl sighs, as if she's distraught. The two sit back down again, careful of her vomit. The bartender calls his janitor to clean up her mess.

The figure calls out, "Butterbeer." The bartender sets a bottle down a moment later.

"Why aren't you at the school?" It's the figure's voice that carries. The girl doesn't reply for a moment. "Why are you here, of all places?" She reaches for her shot glass and swabs her finger across the inside of it, catching a few drops of whisky. The figure watches as she licks her finger with a pink tongue and how she purses her lips at the fire that meets her. Her finger goes back to the glass and she's about to put it back in her mouth again when his hand shoots out of his cloak and grabs her wrist.

"The school is upsetting me; too many things that remind me of bad things. I can forget about you and all of our problems here."

"How long have you been intoxicated?" She looks at him, puzzled. Her eyes are still murky and clouded. She can't see him clearly. His face is shadowed by his cloak and all she can really see is the glint of his eyes. But she knows who he is and she smiles dreamily.

"Does it really even matter anymore?" She leans in towards him. Her face is so close to his and he can see how waxy she looks and how drunken she is. But she's so beautiful and he can't help but let his eyes travel to her lips. They're the only part of her that's lively enough to be called healthy.

"Yes, it does," he replies faintly. "You're not…you're not yourself." She knows he's distracted by her. She's happy because it's always the opposite. He never acknowledges her the way she wishes and she's always angry at him for that. He never said a word that was pleasant to her, or about her.

"I feel fine." She slides closer; their knees are touching. He feels funny now. His hands feel sweaty and his lips tingle.

"You don't _look_ fine," he says matter-of-factly, eyeing her. Her smile is lopsided. Her brown eyes are boring into his and he finds he can't look away. Her cheeks are a radiant red, but he knows that it's from the whisky.

"I _feel_ fine," she assures him, her hand, grey and pale, slides across his cheek and his eyes droop. "I'm fine. I'll prove to you that I'm fine." Her lips ghost his neck and up to his cheek. He barely stops himself from moaning.

People are watching again.

They don't care.

Now there's electricity in the air.

"Stop it," he commands as he feels her breath on his lips. He can feel them tingling and he's sure that her lips tingle too. Distantly, he hears her giggle. It's a giddy giggle, soft and sweet. He can picture her like that. But he can't picture her drunk, even though she's drunk right in front of him.

Too drunk to even care what'll happen next…

_Just one kiss…_

-+-

Malfoy pulls away. Her drunken stupor is almost broken at the gesture and reality comes back to Hermione.

This is Draco Malfoy. She's Hermione Granger. What the _hell_ is she doing?

She grimaces at him and pouts. "Fine. You were never good enough for me anyway." He's hurt by her comment, but he doesn't show it. Just like all the other times, he doesn't show it. Because he _mustn't_ show it. "You're such a hypocrite."

She stands and looks at him for a moment. He looks up at her. "What do you have to say?"

"Only that _you're_ the hypocrite. You told me you loved me. Maybe you were never good enough for me." Hermione's face doesn't change. For once, she's completely stoic. He can't read her; he's frustrated, but he should be damned for even feeling that.

"I'm leaving," she slurs, and it's just like she's too drunk to think rationally again. "You can pay. I'm outta here."

-+-

_I'm sorry that I made you feel like this again. I'm sorry for all the times I made you feel like this. I'm such an idiot. I'm so sorry. Maybe in a few years we can be together and you can understand me and I can go back to reading you. You're my favorite book and I'm your favorite problem. _

_I'm so sorry…_

-+-

She's out the door…

-+-

**If you review, I'll dance with you. (' –')**


End file.
